“That’s the thing,” Bindy said. She seemed to fight back her natural reluctance to talk about her boss’s business. Maybe she believed she’d glean some vital information from me. Bringing her head closer to mine, she whispered, “According to the company history, the four men who founded the company never wanted their children to sell. Zendy was set up as a research company with the mission of bettering the world. It’s done that. In fact, the company has done it so well that it’s made billions on research. Most of that money goes to philanthropic causes.”
“Oh.” I was beginning to understand. Although I trusted Sean’s instincts, it had made no sense to me to put an investment on hold for ten years with no promise that the current successes would continue. I knew there had to be more to the story. “And Mrs. Campbell is reluctant to sell, because…?”
Bindy glanced toward the doorway leading into the dining room. “They can’t hear me, can they?”
I shook my head.
“The company looking to acquire Zendy intends to change its mission.”
“How so?”
“Zendy is worth more in pieces than it is as a whole.” She licked her lips. “If they sell now, Zendy will be split up into smaller units and sold off one at a time.”
“What will happen to the philanthropic agenda?”
She shrugged, then gave a slight giggle. “That’s one of the downsides. But that’s a small price to pay for all the good the four partners can do with the proceeds.”
“I understand now why Mrs. Campbell is opposed to the sale.” I remembered her comment on Thursday, arguing that the new owners might not respect the same goals.
“That’s it,” she said.
“Sounds like Senator Blanchard is tired of giving away the money to the needy and wants to collect the proceeds of the sale for himself.”
Put that way, my reflections made Bindy squirm. “It isn’t Treyton,” she said. “It’s that Nick Volkov. You heard about all the trouble he’s in.”
“There’s no way he’s hurting for money to pay for legal counsel,” I said. “I don’t buy it.”
“You have no idea how deep he’s in debt.”
“But you do.”
She looked away. “I know stuff,” she admitted.
I had a sudden thought. “Is Senator Blanchard planning to run for president?”
When her eyes met mine in that immediate, panicked way, I knew I’d struck a nerve.
“No,” she said unconvincingly. “He’s the same party as President Campbell. That would be silly.”
“True.”
I stood and finished setting up the serving trays, arranging the sorbet so it would look pretty as well as appetizing. I peered into the dining room and saw that both Mrs. Campbell and Senator Blanchard had pushed their empty plates just a little forward. They were done. Moments later, I had their places cleared and dessert served.
Back in the kitchen, I asked Bindy, “And so why are you here?”
“I told you. We thought that this dinner was involving more people.”
For some reason I doubted her. But I couldn’t think of any other plausible reason for her presence, so I let it go.
When the First Lady and the senator were finished eating, I cleared the table one final time, but since they were deep in conversation, I didn’t interrupt. As I washed the remaining dishes and put everything away, Bindy and I discussed the gingerbread men. “They’re incredible,” I said.
“Thanks. We worked hard on them,” she said.
“You and the Blanchards’ chef?” I asked with a tilt to my head and a tone in my voice that asked if she and the chef were romantically involved. She turned away without answering and tried to listen in to the dining room conversation again. Mrs. Campbell and the senator had gone so quiet that there was no hearing them at this point.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, pulling her package onto the tabletop. She gave the top of the diplomatic pouch a little pat. “This is for you.”
I was confused.
Bindy explained. “Treyton is so grateful you agreed to handle the gingerbread men that he asked me to give you this.” She pushed it toward me. “Just to say thank you.”
“I can’t accept…”
“I know, but it really isn’t for you exactly. It’s for the kitchen. He figured that’d be okay.”
As I opened it the weighty bundle, Bindy bit her lip. I wondered if she’d picked it out.
“Thank you,” I said, as the object came free of its packaging. “It’s lovely.”
It was a clock. A bit large for a desk clock-about the size of a hardcover novel-it would have looked more at home in a French Provincial sitting room than in the White House kitchen. The clock face was small, but it was surrounded by a wide border of gold-colored heavy metal. Had it been real gold, I probably could have retired. As it was, the garish thing looked as though someone had picked it out as a joke, or for a white elephant gift exchange. “Thank you,” I said.
Bindy breathed a sigh of relief. “You like it?”
“Sure!” I said. “I’ll keep it in the kitchen right where we all can see it.” To myself, I added that we’d keep it there long enough for Bindy to see it a couple of times. Then off to the warehouse with this clunker. “You really shouldn’t have,” I said, wishing she hadn’t, “but thank you.”
I offered coffee on my last foray into the dining room, but Blanchard declined. He stood. “Has Bindy been good company?” he asked me. “I’m so sorry we had a misunderstanding, but she said she hoped she might be of help back there.”
She must have heard her name because before he finished asking, she was at my side. “I enjoyed reconnecting with Ollie,” she said, with a little lilt to her voice that be-lied her words.
“That’s great,” Blanchard said. To Mrs. Campbell, he smiled and nodded. “It’s been a pleasure, as always, Elaine. I hope you’ll give some serious thought to the matters we discussed.”
“Of course,” she said.
“The clock’s ticking,” he said, tapping his watch. “I don’t want you to forget.”
With a smile that took the sting out of her words, Mrs. Campbell said, “How can I, when you’re so eager to remind me?”
BY THE TIME I GOT BACK TO THE KITCHEN-my kitchen on the ground floor, that is-everyone had left for the day with the exception of Cyan and Bucky. They looked as exhausted as I felt. “Go home,” I said.
Cyan tried to argue, but I shook my head.
“We’ll start fresh in the morning,” I said. “It’s been a tough few days, but I think we made good headway. Tomorrow we’ll turn the corner.”
The relief in their eyes made me glad I’d insisted. “What time tomorrow?” Cyan asked.
With the president in residence, we’d be preparing full meals all day. As Cyan and Bucky traded information and agreed on plans for the next morning, I had a happy thought: The president back in town meant that Tom was back in town, too. Our schedules had kept us apart for too many days in a row. I needed to talk with him. Heck, I just needed to be with him.
Fifteen minutes after Cyan and Bucky left, I was headed to the McPherson Square Metro station for my ride home.
A train pulled into the station just as I made it to the platform. Perfect timing. I claimed a seat near the door and rested my head against the side window, allowing myself to relax just a little bit. I decided to wait to try calling Tom until I was walking to my apartment building. Less chance of losing our connection than if I tried to call while racing underground.
When I emerged outside again, it seemed the temperature had dropped ten degrees. We’d been in the mid-fifties lately, but tonight’s raw air and sharp wind caused my eyes to tear. I shivered, pulling my jacket close, trying to fight the trembling chill.
I loved my jacket. Filled with down, I’d brought it with me from Chicago, where it very effectively blocked the wicked wind. January in Chicago always meant bundling up with a hat, a sweatshirt hood covering that, and big, insulated mittens. Today, here in D.C., I took no such precautions. It was just me and my jacket against this peculiarly icy wind.